


Cross the Line

by FandomWriter23



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Cause fuck season 8, Dany doesn't go full mad queen, F/M, Forced Marriage, Jorah Mormont Lives, Minor Character Death, Missandei Lives (ASoIaF), Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Political Jon Snow, Political Marriage, Political Sansa Stark, Rhaegal Lives (ASoIaF), Screw DnD, dany lives, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomWriter23/pseuds/FandomWriter23
Summary: Sansa has been through more in a few short years than most go through in a lifetime. The play toy of psychopaths and at the mercy of murderers, she's had to become strong and watch her dreams wither and die to survive. She had to stop feeling.Now, away from her tormentors and with her family again, she can let herself feel again. But can her cold behavior really be unlearned?Jon has been pushed away by his family and betrayed by his second family. He had to learn to trust no one, everyone close having stabbed him in the back- both literally and figuratively. With his second chance at life, he is not nearly as trusting and naive. No one is to be trusted.Now, reunited with his blood family, he must learn to trust again. But can you trust again when you've only been burned by those closest to you?With Sansa's paranoia and fear skyrocketing, Jon must set her fears to rest and remind her that he will never hurt her or let her be hurt. But as their world threatens to collapse around them, they both must make a choice.How far would you go to protect those closest to you? What lines would you cross to ensure their safety and happiness?
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister & Sansa Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter One

The North, as always, was bitterly cold.

The northern winds were strong today, blowing with them the iciness from beyond the wall. Or perhaps it was the breath of those spoken of in hushed whispers by drunken men- the Others, the White Walkers.

Sansa shivered at the thought. It was not something she cared to think about, but Jon believed in them, said he'd even fought them. These mythical creatures of old had shown themselves to the King in the North, and now he was on a crusade to unite all the Seven Kingdoms against this ancient evil. It reminded her of the Targaryens, the Conquerors who were the first to unite all the Seven Kingdoms.

Under their reign, there had been good times, yet such horrible things happened too.

In these recent days, Sansa had begun to wonder if perhaps it was the end of the Targaryen reign that brought the icy demons back from the dead, the fire of dragons unable to subdue them any longer.

If the blood of Old Valyria still sat upon the throne, if the reign of Fire and Blood had never ended, would the Others, the White Walkers, have come back to the realm of men?

Sansa wasn't sure. The blood of the dragons didn't matter to her much; here in the North, wolf-blood was all that mattered. Her Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna had wolf-blood running in their veins. Sansa's father, the Quiet Wolf, had once said that their wolf-blood led them both to early deaths. Arya had the wolf-blood, too, as had Rickon. As a child, Sansa had worried for them often, worried they would meet similar fates to their father's siblings.

Well, she'd been right about Rickon.

Sansa brushed a tear from her eye, the tear burning her skin where it touched. It stung due to the frigid air, but it did not sting as much as her brother's death. Sometimes, she wished Lord Ramsay Bolton was still alive so she could kill him all over again.

Sansa shook her head, thinking she sounded like Arya. Arya had thought of killing men even in their youth- Sansa shared the sentiment now. She'd seen the darkness in men's hearts, and she never wished to be the target for their torture ever again.

Sometimes, instead of fantasizing of killing Ramsay all over again, she wished that Myranda had killed her when she'd had the chance. Instead, Myranda had met a sudden end and Sansa had lived to see her baby brother die.

Sansa watched Lady Brienne train Podrick, a sweet man if ever there was one. Sansa sometimes envied Lady Brienne- she wasn't very attractive to most, leading men to ignore her, and she was big enough and skilled enough to fight off any man who did pursue her. Sansa could not imagine Lady Brienne falling victim to the men who'd preyed on Sansa. Sansa became a plaything as soon as she entered the world; but Brienne, Brienne was no plaything, and anyone who treated her as such would promptly be proven wrong at the edge of a blade.

She was what Sansa imagined Arya would be like, given the training she'd wanted as a child.

Sansa smiled then.

The smile died when Lord Baelish decided to join her.

"Ah, the radiant Lady of Winterfell. How have the title and duties been treating you?"

"They've treated me well, Lord Baelish," Sansa replied coldly. She wore a mask once more, hiding every thought in her head. Baelish exploited those thoughts, weaknesses, just as Sansa did. He taught her, just as Cersei, Joffrey, Margaery, and even Ramsay had. They all taught her lessons she soon wouldn't forget.

"I'm glad that you are fairing well in your position, but you seem unhappy. I want to see you happy, Sansa. How can I make you happy?"

"A moment's peace, perhaps," she replied coolly, then worried she'd revealed too much of the game.

After some pained conversation, Sansa managed to escape Littlefinger's clutches once more. She'd become rather good at it, despite the man making it incredibly difficult. Sansa must always choose her words carefully, for fear he was within earshot.

The mockingbird was dangerous, and Sansa would never again believe men like him.

While Sansa valued diplomacy and secrecy as her weapons, she was quickly coming to appreciate bluntness and brute force that her sister and Lady Brienne boasted. She wished she could see it turned on Baelish.

Lady Brienne joined her company a moment later, steadfast and silent. She was Sansa's shadow, and Sansa had once found it suffocating, but now she took comfort in it. However, the silence was heavy between them, and Sansa knew there was something her Lady Knight wished to say.

"Yes, Lady Brienne?"

"My Lady, forgive me, but is Lord Baelish someone we should wish to keep around so long? I do not trust him, My Lady." Brienne of Tarth, while she tried to be delicate, could no more tiptoe around a subject than she could hold herself like the ladies of the southern court. She was too bold, too brash, all warrior. Sansa loved her for it.

"No, we should not wish to keep him here, nor should we trust him, but he was instrumental in bringing the Knights of the Vale to win the Battle of the Bastards and regaining Winterfell, so we can not slight them by sending the Lord Protector of the Vale away," Sansa replied honestly and quietly. It wouldn't do for Baelish to hear of Sansa's hatred for him. He must believe she trusts him, that he still has her ear.

She was lulling him into a false sense of security, and once he is confidence in his footing, she shall pull the rug out from beneath his feet and go in for the kill.

However, Sansa's skin still crawled from where his eyes seemed to burn. She wished to claw her own skin off, finally escape this skin that had turned from porcelain to ivory to steel that men all seemed to covet.

She no longer wished to be herself.

For the rest of the day, Sansa continued to ground herself, as she wished to jump from her own skin. When the day was finally done and her duties fulfilled, she was more than grateful to return to her new chambers. Podrick entered first, simply checking the room as Brienne and Sansa stood outside the door. Part of her wished to send them away, tell them how unnecessary all of this was, and yet she enjoyed her guards' company too much to do so.

She did not wish to be alone quite yet.

When he told them the room was empty, Sansa went to enter and bid the two goodnight. However, Podrick lingered, and he reached out to touch his Lady, wishing to bid her words of encouragement.

Any positive words were stopped when Sansa yelped at his touch and fell over herself to put as much space between herself and Podrick as she could. Brienne charged into the room, quickly trying to assess the situation before her.

"I'm sorry, m'lady, I simply wanted to give some encouragement to you. I should not have touched you," Podrick said, ashamed, and Brienne went to admonish him for touching their Lady.

Sansa collected herself quickly with a breath and stayed her Knight's reprimand with a gesture. "It is alright, Podrick. I simply have some demons that have haunted my steps today. Thank you for your support." Despite herself, tears of frustration and anxiety clouded her eyes. Brienne's eyes softened even as she shifted awkwardly, unsure. Podrick looked ready to hug her if only Sansa accepted it, and so Sansa collapsed into a sitting position on her bed under the weight of their sympathy.

"I'm sorry; Littlefinger simply brings back memories of Ramsey which I wish would remain long dead like the man who gave them to me," Sansa confessed, rubbing at her face.

"There is nothing to be sorry for, my Lady. You experienced a great trauma at your husband's hands." Podrick spoke softly, as if Sansa was spun glass that would break if he spoke too loud. _Porcelain, ivory, steel_.

"If I was like you, Brienne, I could have at least defended myself from him. Instead, I am simply weak, meant to suffer any beatings others see fit to give me," Sansa admitted aloud, frustrated with the limitations of her own body, with her lack of physical training, with the society that deemed women were not fit to carry swords. Sansa had thought that once, and she was glad she was wrong.

Brienne proved that wrong. Arya proved that wrong.

Brienne sighed heavily, sadly. "My Lady, when I served your Lady Mother, she tasked me with returning Ser Jaime Lannister to King's Landing in the hopes of obtaining your and Arya's freedom. It should have been relatively simple, but he and I were captured by soldiers who didn't seem to care who I served. They were set to rape me, kill me, and I could not protect myself." She paused, swallowed hard. "I was screaming, fighting, but they still overpowered me. Before they could, Ser Jaime convinced them I was worth more alive and with my maidenhood in tact than fucked and left for dead," she finished, swallowing hard again past the lump in her throat.

"So you see," she continued. "No matter how big and tough you may be, someone may still attack you and try to take advantage of you. I do not want you blaming yourself for what that _madman_ did to you, my Lady. You did not deserve it, no one does, and you should never have had to protect yourself from your own Lord husband. Never give them the satisfaction of believing you are less because of a crime they committed against you," Brienne said fiercely, indignantly.

Faced with such strong words, Sansa was unsure of how to proceed. She took a deep breathe, composing her words in her mind. "Thank you, my Sworn Shield, for trusting me with your past. I can see why you hold Ser Jaime Lannister in such high regards now. I also thank you for your kind words regarding my own experience. I trust neither of you will speak of what we have discussed outside of this room, and only in my confidence."

At their nods, she dismissed them for the night with a fond farewell.


	2. Chapter 2

Upon her brother's and sister's return, Sansa began to feel whole again, safe. Even if there is a blood lust in Arya's eyes and emptiness in Bran's, something deep within Sansa knew a wolf would never turn on their Pack.

Perhaps that is why she did not expect Arya to confront her about the note she sent to Robb, or threaten to steal her face.

However, Arya's confrontation did allow for them to smell the plot against them by the mockingbird.

Truly, they might have missed the smell of deceit, had it not been for the Broken Wolf. Bran might have come back as something else, something older, but he still was a wolf inside. He warned them that not all was as it seemed, and one man was bent on tearing the sisters apart to leave Sansa alone, vulnerable, so that he might climb the ladder. The same man had conspired against their family more times than one might be able to count, but never again would he win, never again would he tear the Starks apart. Before, he'd separated them, had others kill them off one by one.

While wolves can kill smaller prey on their own, wolves hunt in packs to kill larger, more dangerous _things_.

Littlefinger, if nothing else, was dangerous.

It had been so satisfying to watch his throat be cut to the bone and watch him bleed out upon the stone.

Sansa spent the next few weeks preparing for the eventuality of all of the North seeking shelter here, within Winterfell's walls. Sansa had the kennels gutted in order to fit them for more beds, having the dogs retrained by a trusted kennel master. Once properly fed and treated with kindness, the dogs weren't as mad as Ramsey had boasted.

Sansa always did believe in second chances for abused creatures.

She often wondered about what truly was the difference between the direwolves' loyalty and Ramsey's mad dogs.

The difference, Sansa found, was that the direwolf was viewed as the Starks' equal.

A direwolf would never turn on a Stark like the mad dogs had turned on Bolton because a Stark would never starve their wolf like Ramsey had his dogs.

A direwolf was born for each Stark, as a Stark had been born for each pup. They were fated to be together, to be by each other's sides always, until death parted them.

A Stark was never meant to be without their direwolf.

Sansa had lost hers first. She'd lost herself first.

She could hear whispers, when she was forced to bear the name Bolton, about how she was no Stark; she was not wild enough, not Stark enough. She looked too much like a Fish, acted like a Lioness, bore the name of the Flayed Man, and sounded like a Mockingbird.

Lady Catelyn Stark may have smelled of fish, but no one would have ever mistaken her for anything but a wolf. Her fur had shimmered like the scales of a fish, but oh, how she _howled_.

Sansa could only imagine the late Lady Catelyn's disappointment in her eldest daughter, Sansa unable to prove her loyalty to even her family. Arya had doubted her. How long before Jon would, too?

Everything she'd done had been for her family and for their people, and yet her own sister believed her to be power hungry. She believed the worst in Sansa, and she couldn't blame Arya.

The horns of Winterfell sounded, calling out an ally's approach. Sansa shook herself of her melancholy self-doubts, looking to see if she could spot whoever was out there. "My Lady! They are flying a flag of peace, but no other sign of who they are," an out-of-breath squire reported, clearly having run to her. Ghost glanced up to her.

"Thank you. Ensure everyone is ready for an ambush, but we will accept our apparently peaceful visitor." Sansa sent the squire off, taking a moment to collect herself.

Ghost, ever her shadow since Jon had left for Dragonstone, tilted his head, as if to ask a question.

"We have a visitor, Ghost." They'd received word a fortnight ago that Jon and the Dragon Queen were on their way from King's Landing, but Sansa did not believe it was long enough for an army that size to have mobilized and arrived here. At times, she wished Lady Brienne was here to offer guidance.

Sansa was worried enough about how she would feed all of those warriors, not to mention two large dragons and the rest of the North.

What she found in Winterfell's courtyard was one lone rider, now standing beside his horse, waving a white flag, and one of his hands shone gold.

"Ser Jaime Lannister. How lovely to see you. Where is the army I'm told your sister promised my brother? Surely she would not send you alone? Perhaps she sent you ahead to warn of your numbers?" Sansa Stark asked faux-curiously. Sansa Stark knew the Lioness of Casterly Rock, and she knew Cersei would send no one. However, that does not explain the Young Lion of Lannister's presence this far North.

The Young Lion- his moniker so similar to her own brother, the Young Wolf. Both known for prowess in battle. A pang in her chest accompanied thoughts of the long dead Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, the first King of Winter that the North has seen in three hundred years. She could not think of her brother without an ache in her chest, with a chasm appearing where her heart should be; she missed him fiercely.

Sansa could imagine how her Sworn Shield Lady Brienne would react to him, to seeing Ser Jaime's visage once more, but she took after her Lady. Brienne would have restrained herself, hid behind her mask, just as Sansa did.

Ghost was much less restrained. He bared his fangs, a clear warning, even as he remained close to Sansa's side.

"Unfortunately, Queen Cersei does not mean to honor her promise, but I do. I wish to pledge my service to you." The Lion of Lannister, one of the last of his House, knelt at her feet.

She'd discussed the Kingslayer at length with Lady Brienne of Tarth many times before she'd gone to the parlay. Her once brother-in-law had remained elusive and perplexing during her time at King's Landing, never cruel like Cersei or Joffrey or Tywin, but not sweet like Myrcella or Tommen or Tyrion.

Now, with the Young Lion in front of her, he was just as confusing as ever.

"Why would you ever ask to enter into my service?" Sansa asked, eyes calculating and mind whirling. Someone else's words swirled in her mind.

 _Sometimes when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game_.

"I've spent years fighting for terrible kings, serving drunks and lunatics. I want to know what it's like to serve with pride, to fight for someone I believe in."

Sansa rolled this thought over in her mind, inspecting it. Jaime Lannister would be a formidable, dangerous piece to possess. Skilled in sword-fight, if he was truly loyal to Sansa, he could be instrumental in battle and keeping her safe. And if he was not loyal, his capture would be easy to orchestrate and hold over Cersei's head- that her beloved brother, alleged lover, was at the mercy of Stark hands once more. She nodded slightly, and he said those ancient words. "Lady Sansa of House Stark, I offer my services to you. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor," she began, only to pause. She wished to give these words weight, meaning. This was what he most wanted while in her service- to regain his honor. She remembered Brienne telling her how this Lion had sworn so many vows in his service that no man could ever hope to keep them all; Sansa knew he wasn't the best of men, but she did hope she could fulfill this request of his. "I swear it by the old gods and the new. I accept you, Jaime Lannister into my service." An observer came forth, providing Sansa their fur cloak with a Stark pendant.

She thanked the observer with a nod and drew the fur across Ser Jaime's shoulders, clasping it around him.

"Arise, the Lion of Winterfell."

 _The_ Lion. Not _a_ Lion. As if no other Lannister would come to Winterfell, to her courtyard, and come to call Winterfell home. There would only ever be one Lion, a Pride no longer.

Even Tyrion, a decent, almost-good Lion would not be welcome to call this castle home. Not quite. Too much weight to it, as her once-husband. Too many strings pulling on their limbs.

She would never again kneel under a Lannister cloak, or any other cloak. She would die under Stark colors.

She's been forced to bear too many cloaks coated in the blood of her family, her countrymen.

Upon the conclusion of the ceremony, Jaime returned the cloak to its owner and Sansa ordered the creation of a cloak for him, as she'd done for Brienne. They were short on supplies, but she would do this for her Sworn Shields.

Ghost seemed to understand, appearing to relax next to her.

Sansa also knew that this new Sworn Shield meant that now both halves of her family's ancestral sword, Ice, had finally return to Winterfell, to the Starks, to serve them.

Soon, the people of Winterfell went back to their business, leaving Sansa alone with her new Sworn Shield and her furry shadow. She reached out to stroke Ghost's fur, a comfort to Sansa. After a moment, she nodded to herself and moved to go to her study. Jaime followed, and once she sat with her notes before her, he took up a position just inside her door.

However, it seemed he felt the need to break their silence.

"I want to," he started, then paused, as if to collect himself. "Apologize for what all you and your siblings went through at the hands of my family."

"I thought all of my brothers and sister, except for Jon, were dead. My parents are both dead. Most of my siblings _are_ dead. Because of your oldest son and father." Sansa's tone was steady, words simple. She was calm. Her eyes remained on her notes on Winterfell's state of affairs and financial book.

She'd never spoken on Joffrey's parentage, and certainly never thought she'd discuss it with Ser Jaime himself. It is his sin of fathering a child by his sister, his twin, that killed Sansa's own father. That, and her stupidity.

"I understand your hatred of all Lannisters."

"No, not all Lannisters. Your brother was kind to me, as were Tommen and Myrcella."

The Lost Lion Cubs. That's what the people liked to call Tommen and Myrcella, both sweet and childlike in Sansa's memories, lost to the world now.

Sansa, for all her hatred of Lannisters, never wanted those cubs hurt. Like Rickon, Bran, and Arya- pups lost to the Starks in so many ways- the cubs hadn't deserved what the world did to them. Little Rickon, dead and buried now, had been raised by a wildling more than his own Lady mother because his mother had a war to win and had her throat cut to the bone for her trouble. Bran, all but lost now, despite being home again. Arya, having slipped away into the shadows of the Capital, was as lost as Bran to her sister. Brienne had seen her, once, and the Hound had taken her far and wide in the hopes of returning her to family, but Starks had been dropping like flies at the time.

However, she did return to them in her own time, as had Bran. Now, Arya and Bran both weren't the same children that had grown up in Winterfell all those years ago.

No, the Stark Pups and Lannister Cubs were all lost now, dead or _different_ , and Sansa wished she could go back to when all the Starks were happy and alive, Jon Arryn was Hand of the King, and the King and Queen with their Cubs rarely visited.

"I'm sorry about what happened to them," Sansa added, looking at him now.

The Knight looked distraught, and Sansa knew why. The man had lost all his children, children he hadn't even been allowed to raise. He couldn't claim them. One even died in his arms, so close to safety, yet not. Another died, chocking on his own vomit and blood, in front of him. One simply needed someone to be there for him, but instead his lady mother murdered his wife, and he leapt from a window for it, all alone.

Jaime's family was a tragedy, just like the Starks.

"As am I, my Lady."


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa Stark had begun preparations for the arrival of The Mother of Dragons and her dear brother as soon as she'd received word that they were en route to Winterfell.

Their armies with the rulers were hot on the Lion of Winterfell's heels, arriving only days later.

Lady Stark tried to have all of her people dressed in their best clothes, and feasts were set to be served that night. Sansa wished she could spare some of the extravagance and the excess food for her people who were close to starving, but the North must appear strong and practice hospitality.

Sansa did not wish to feel a Dragon's ire.

When her King entered the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder with the Dragon Queen, Sansa stood exactly where her Lord Father had once stood to receive his King all those years ago. Bran was beside her, being pushed in his wheelchair by his companion Meera Reed.

The Dragon Queen was just as beautiful as they said.

She bowed to her King, her brother, first.

He had not said the words in their home, before their people, so she would not accept it.

"Your Graces," she greeted them both, bowing to the Queen of Meereen once she'd bowed to the King in the North.

Sansa had sent her Lannister Sworn Shield to his rooms to rest, ensuring Ghost would be her guard during this welcoming. Arya, likewise, was sent into hiding by Sansa. Once the proper greetings had been made, Jon gestures for Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne to return to Sansa's side. The Sworn Shield and squire did as their King bid, Brienne was relieved that her Lady had maintained the castle so well. She was pleased to see that the people wore better clothing and appeared to have received some decent meals since she'd left.

Jon stepped toward Bran, greeting him with a kiss on the head and words about how he'd grown into a man.

The last of the Stark men, of Lord Eddard Stark's sons, King Robb's heirs.

There was a commotion in the crowd behind the rulers, with angry yelling and some unpleasant words thrown in. Sansa tried to see what was going on, but it soon proved unnecessary.

Sandor Clegane shoves himself out of the crowd, as fierce and angry as ever. Sansa's mouth fell open just slightly at the sight of him, but she quickly covered her surprised. She remembered the last time she'd seen him, his eyes wild with terror and he ran from the Battle of Blackwater, offering to take her with him.

His eyes landed on her, and he strode with purpose to her. Brienne bristled, prepared for a fight, and Ghost's hackles rose in warning, but Sandor Clegane instead dropped to one knee in front of her. "I'm no knight, but I'm an angry fuck who's good at killing. I've served drunken fools and bratty tyrants. Now, I want to pledge my service, my sword, to you."

The words caught her off guard. She'd known he was fond of her during her imprisonment in the castle, but she'd never dreamed he'd want to serve her. She felt overwhelmed, like her world had tilted off its axis. She looked around, as if to find somewhere to escape. Her eyes caught sight of the gutted kennels, and it felt as if something snagged her mind. She looked back to Clegane.

The Hound knelt at her feet, another mad dog of tyrants. He'd never bitten the hand that fed him, but he'd run, far and fast, from his once-masters' reaches. Sansa knew what she must do.

"Say the words," she said quietly, gently.

Sandor Clegane, the great beast of a man, scowled slightly. Then, he looked to be concentrating, trying to remember the old words. She wished she could take it back, simply speak her words, but she knew it must be official. "Lady Sansa of House Stark," he spoke, then stopped. He looked uncertain.

"I will shield your back, and keep your counsel," Podrick murmured, sounding encouraging.

"I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new," he finished off, sounding relieved to be done with it.

"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth," she spoke, the words a gentle whisper. She said the words with warmth, wanting to convey how much the large man meant to her, and how fond of him she was. "And meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new." She paused, looking around at all of the observers. Her glare revealed the ice in her heart, promising retribution to anyone who spoke out of turn about her knight, who would mean to insult him or question his honor. Any man or woman who met her eye in this moment would see the wolf within her gaze.

Brienne stepped forward, offering her cloak and pin to her Lady. Sansa took it, nodding in thanks.

She looked back to him, her eyes shining with the warmth she still had left. She stepped toward him, draping the cloak over his wide shoulders and pinning it there. "Ser Sandor Clegane, you are no longer the dog of the Lannisters, but a wolf of Winterfell. Arise, a new member of the Pack." The words fit oddly in her mouth, but they felt _right_ , as right as accusing Baelish of his treachery against House Stark and demanding justice. As right as loosing the Boltons' mad dogs on Ramsay had felt.

It all felt like justice, like what was right.

He stood, towering over all around them, and the crowd applauded. Sansa observed them all calmly, but she noted the Dragon Queen's pinched expression and Jon's look of rage.

Once everyone had gone, Sansa ordered for a cloak fitting her new Sworn Shield to be made, and Sandor returned Brienne's cloak to her. As the woman righted her fur cloak, Ghost went to sniff at Sandor, as if giving him the wolf's own approval. Podrick looked amicable, if intimidated.

Jon stepped toward her, as if to speak to her, but Daenerys called him to her. He looked between the two women before he ultimately followed the Queen who was said to mother dragons.

She wished for a tour.

"Before we discuss anything, you must meet your fellow Sworn Shield." Sandor and Brienne both looked to her with confusion. Podrick also looked puzzled.

"Shouldn't he have been standing beside you for the greeting?"

"Not if we meant to keep the peace." Sansa motioned them to follow, moving toward Ser Jaime's chambers.

They arrived at his rooms, and Sansa knocked. She heard his quiet call to enter, and she opened the door, stepping in. Ghost stood beside her, sniffing around, and Brienne and Sandor followed her in.

She saw as their eyes landed on the Young Lion, their mouths dropping open slightly as their eyes widened.

"Jaime? You've sworn yourself to her service?" Brienne exclaimed.

"I thought I'd seen the last of you golden cunts when I left the Lannisters' service," Sandor grumbled, glaring.

"Yes, well, I always love to surprise others and defy expectations."

"Ser, I've missed you! I'm glad you're doing well." Prodrick had been fond of both the Lannister sons, both kind to the dishonored Squire. Tyrion has been deemed a punishment, but some of Prodick's best times had been with the man, and then Jaime. He was thankful that Brienne, Tyrion, and Jaime were finally on the same side of the war.

"Does that mean that the Lannister forces are here as well? I didn't see them in the crowd when Sansa met us in the courtyard," Brienne said, sounding confused.

"No, just me."

"It seems his sister never meant to send her army North to fight the undead. She lied to my King."

"I even left without her permission. She threatened to kill me as I left. I don't think she's too happy."

"That woman has never been happy. She's cold and bitter," Sandor spit out, and Sansa smiled slightly.

"The Dragon Queen will not be happy at this news," Brienne warned, turning to her Lady.

"No, she won't be. I will tell her of the news Jaime brought. However, we must hide Jaime until then. She will call for his death, since he _did_ murder her father. As I have sworn to protect him, that won't go well."

"No, you Northern cunts wouldn't take that well," Sandor said, and Sansa chuckled. At one time, she would've been offended by his words, but now it was just funny to her how he did not mince his words.

After discussing her plans further, Sansa left Ser Jaime's rooms, Brienne and Sandor following. Ghost was in step with her, his fur brushing her hand as they walked. Prodrick stayed with Jaime, meaning to serve him this afternoon as Sansa bid. Lady Stark saw to her duties around the castle, her three shadows watching everyone around them.

Soon, Ghost left her side, going to hunt. A hunting party accompanied him, and Sansa hoped that no dragons lurked in their forests.

When the feast was set to begin, Sansa made sure that everything was perfectly in order. She never stopped, never rested, simply fluttering from one task to the next.

Sandor watched on beside the Maid of Tarth, feeling pride for the woman Sansa had become.

Sandor Clegane was a Hound who'd once been in the service of Lions, but found some Wolf pups who needed protecting. Sansa had been a Pup, even if everyone called her Little Bird. She'd shown him a better way, made him want to be the Knight in all her stories. She made him want to be a better man.

Arya had been a vicious Pup who'd seen too much, was too wild. Even an old Hound like him couldn't keep up with her forever, but he tried to teach her enough for her to survive. He hadn't seen Arya yet, but he hoped she was as alive and fierce as Brienne said.

Even though the Pups had grown big and led armies, he still would always see them as the Pups who needed his protection.


	4. Chapter 4

The following day, Sansa had plans, and she was determined to see them through.

After breaking her fast with her Sworn Shield Ser Sandor, who took over from Brienne and Podrick, she went on to complete all of her morning duties. She observed how fast the armory was progressing towards arming the people.

Since the Queen's arrival yesterday, Gendry Waters had begun working with Winterfell's smiths to create weapons to defeat the Others. Sansa watched him for a moment as he forged a sword, and when he appeared to be finished, she stepped into his line of sight.

"M'lady," the young smith said, bowing his head.

"Hello, Gendry Waters. Interesting to hear that name. Waters. I don't seem to remember King Robert Baratheon ever acknowledging any of his bastards," Sansa greeted, calculations running through her mind as she dried to sift for the truth.

"He didn't. His brother, Lord- King- Stannis Baratheon did."

"And what do you think he was?"

"What?"

"Stannis Baratheon. Did you take him for a King or merely a Lord. A Lord Paramount."

"I took him for a kinslayer," Gendry growled. Sansa modded, as if in approval.

"I met your father. He seemed like a good man."

"I met your father. He seemed like a man who never wanted to be King," Sansa said, offering honesty in response to this man's bluntness. After years in the capital, with barbs and threats disguised as courtesy and compliments, she could appreciate this sort of attitude.

"Your brother doesn't seem like he wants to be King, either. Maybe that's why he bent the knee. Your sister didn't seem like she wanted anything to do with nobility either," Gendry replied, his voice softening when he mentioned Arya.

"How did you know Arya?" Sansa questioned, shocked. Arya hadn't spoken much about her travels, really just mentioned her training to be a Faceless Man. She hadn't even mentioned how she met the Hound. How did she get to know this boy?

"She didn't tell you?" He sounded hurt, like he thought he was more important to the younger She-Wolf.

"She doesn't speak much of her travels. Were you close?"

"She wanted me to come with her. I wanted to join the Brotherhood Without Banners, a group sanctioned by your Lord father himself. I wanted to do good by the people. Then they sold me to a witch for gold. I don't know what happened to her after that," Gendry admitted, guilt and sadness in his voice, before it morphed into anger.

"I happened," Sandor said, gruff. He wasn't sorry, he wasn't sad, he was just stating a fact.

"Either way, she is a strong woman who made it home to her family. Perhaps, sometime, Gendry, you and I may share a meal with my sister and discuss our travels." Sansa smiled warmly, fondly, before moving along to her next task.

Before long, the sun was high in the midday sky, and Ghost had returned just in time for her meeting in the Godswood.

Sandor and Ghost escorted her there, and she saw a cloaked figure following in the shadows. She smiled, knowing who it was.

Once they reached the woods and no one was near, the cloaked figure stepped to them. Jaime removed his cloak, and she nodded to him in greeting. The group made their way through the woods, Sandor leading them and Jaime following. Once they neared the clearing, Sansa motioned to stop before they were visible. They waited for a moment, and soon Arya's voice could be heard from the clearing. "Sansa." The Lady of Winterfell smiled, amused at her sister's lack of subtlety.

Clegane followed her into the clearing where Jon stood among the white, soft snow. He looked like he was cut from obsidian, all dark and brooding against the large, pale weirwood that stood behind him. "Jon."

Arya stood next to him, another dark figure standing out from the crisp white. She smiled to her older sister, stepping back from Jon.

Jon looked to her, and his eyes went soft. However, his gaze strayed, and it turned as hard as Valyrian steel upon landing on Ser Sandor Clegane. "Hound."

"Jon," Sansa admonished. "That is no longer his title! He is no dog to the Lannisters."

"Then what is he, Sansa? He's no direwolf, just like Lady was never a pet. You can't make him into your personal pet. He's a feral dog who's bitten his masters," Jon growled, all teeth. Ghost stood beside Sansa calmly, though she could feel his uncertainty. His two masters were not exhibiting similarly levels of hostility, so he wasn't sure who to respond to. Sansa reached out, petting his head. "And you seem to have tamed my direwolf as well."

"Jon, Sandor Clegane was forced to serve tyrants, and he served them well. So did Ramsey's mad dogs, and they even tore him to pieces and feasted on his flesh, but they now know a kind hand and full bellies. Ser Sandor was used as a weapon, but he protected Arya and me as best he could. I will not turn him away or allow for this cruelty to be thrown at him," Sansa replied calmly, but her eyes belied her fury. Who was Jon to scorn Sandor?

What did he know of the man's actions to her? He hadn't been in the capitol, suffered as she had.

"She's right, Jon. Sandor protected me and tried to return me to our family." Arya left out the ransom, but she and he both knew it went beyond that when he fought Lady Brienne of Tarth on that mountain.

"Why have you asked me here?" Jon asked, changing the subject. He was too angry to speak on it, to argue with his sisters over the Hound of the Lannisters. He already had the only tolerable Lannister left under his roof, and he already wanted to throw him out. The man had married Sansa Stark, and who knows what she suffered married to him.

He'd heard tales of him from the mouth of whores.

"I have urgent matters to discuss with you before the Dragon Queen knows." She spoke just loud enough for her voice to carry back to where she'd once hid, and Jaime stepped out from the trees.

"Lannister?" Jon growled, drawing his sword. He went to pull both his sisters behind them, keeping the Lannister and his dog from his sisters.

"No, Jon, he has sworn himself to my service!" Sansa exclaimed, keeping herself between him and the Kingslayer.

"He has done what?" If he'd been furious by Sandor swearing himself to sweet Sansa, he was downright enraged now.

"You Starks are hard to kill, so I felt I might as well join you." Jaime wore a smirk that took almost a decade off of his features. He once more looked like the Young Lion women sang about, the Lion of Lannister who had rode into Winterfell like a fairytale. Sansa almost stopped breathing, she was so frightened. Not of him, or the ghost of the man he once was, but of the resemblance to the boy he'd sired.

Jaime Lannister looked like what his bastard son might have grown into, and the thought of Joffrey Lannister alive and in the flesh terrified her.

She might have faced worse, endured Ramsay, but Joffrey was the monster who made her look at her dead father's head, promised to bring her brother's and mother's heads to her as well. He was the one who beat her in front of the court, and had his men rip her clothes.

Yes, Ramsay was worse, but Joffrey was the one who ripped away her childhood.

In response to the rising tension in the air, Ghost's hackles rose in agitation, his teeth bared. Jon growled, taking a threatening step toward the Lion Sworn Sword. Arya moved forward, grabbing her brother's arm. Jon looked back at her, his face red with anger. At Arya's stern look, he relented, sheathing his sword with a grunt.

"Glad we got that out of the way," Jaime said, and Jon lunged forward. The only thing stopping him from tackling the man was Arya hauling him back.

"Jon! We have much to talk about, so you cannot beat Jaime senseless," Sansa admonished once she'd snapped out of her trance.

Jon sheathed his sword, but he still looked moments away from hacking into Jaime Lannister's neck.

When he'd first arrived, Arya would have gladly joined Jon in the murder.

"Jon, you've struck a deal with the Lioness of Lannister." Sansa's words were soft but firm, and she placed her hand upon his cheek, forcing her King to look into her Tully blue eyes. Stark grey stared back, a stormy sky meeting a clear sea. "However, she does not mean to honor it."

"My sister has deemed it wiser to keep her men in King's Landing, waiting for you to defeat the dead. Your tired and hungry men will be much easier pickings for her and the crows," Jaime said, frustration in his voice. He'd tried to make his twin see reason, see how if these people didn't win, there would be no world to fight over. She hadn't cared.

She just wanted the throne. The throne she'd been promised since she was a little girl.

"Then why have you come?" Jon asked, angry. Part of him knew they shouldn't trust Cersei, but he still felt rage at being deceived.

"I've broken enough vows in this lifetime. I mean to honor this one, even if it kills me."

"How do we know that this is not a trick? That you don't mean to shove a sword in our backs the moment we are alone? At your mercy?" Jon asked, dubious.

"Your direwolf would kill me before I even stepped close enough. Your little brother would most likely see it, too." Jaime could not forget the youngest remaining Stark boy's all-knowing stare, how it had bore into him.

Snow looked to his wolf, his counterpart. Two equal sides to a coin. The wolf stared back, and Jon could see the loyalty shining in his eyes.

For every Stark, there must be a direwolf.

"The Dragon Queen will not be pleased."

"She also won't be pleased to see me, the man who shoved a sword in her father's back."

"Jaime," Sansa admonished.

"He's right. She will call for his death. But I can temper her. We must tell her gently." Jon sighed heavily. He felt the chains, the weight of death pulling at his arms. Ever since the Red Woman had brought him back, he hadn't been able to shake the chill in his bones or the weariness in his soul.

"No one can temper a Dragon," Arya murmured, her stare blank, empty. Jon stared at her, his eyes searching, reaching, trying to grasp something incomprehensible. Before him stood his sister, but not. Like how gazing at Bran had been like looking at a stranger.

"You must not anger her. We already have so many enemies now. With Houses dying off, we must be careful. No one even knows who killed all the Frey men, but my only hope is whoever did that will not come for us next. We cannot handle enemies on both sides during this war." Jon heaved a sigh, his eyes closing as his lungs burned from the cold Northern air. Despite the burn, he longed for the stinging cold of what Tormund Giantsbane considered the _true_ North.

Wasn't that the last place he felt at home? Out there, among the Freefolk, with Ygritte in that damned cave?

Arya snorted, as if that was the funniest joke she'd ever heard. Jon's eyes snapped open, staring at her again. How could she laugh at a time like this, about the men who slayed her Lady Mother and _Robb_ and his pretty wife and, if the stories were true, their unborn child? Those who killed Grey Wind and sewed his head upon their beloved brother's body? Their King in the North, the first King the North had seen in a thousand years, slaughtered at their Uncle's wedding after breaking bread with the damned Freys and twisted Boltons?

"They are no threat to us," Sansa said, a smile upon her lips, as if she was not speaking of the same family she wanted slaughtered. Jon's eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

"Winter came for House Frey," Arya murmured, her teeth showing in a smile that looked more a threat. Jon glanced at the two She-Wolves, wondering what could have made them into these creatures of blood and war. They smiled, as if telling a joke, and Jon felt as if they were baring their fangs.

"What did you do?"

"They betrayed Robb. They broke Guest Right."

"Robb and Mother broke bread with them, drank their wine, and the Freys slew them over their stew, and that is something the gods cannot forgive," Arya spat, angry.

"So Arya repaid them the favor."

"I killed his sons and baked them into a pie. I fed old Walder Frey his sons, just as the Rat Cook did. I killed every single Frey man that participated in the betrayal of the Northern Alliance. You only avenged _half_ of the Red Wedding. I finished off the rest."

"Arya! How could you? All you've done is create future problems for our family," Jon practically shouted.

"Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe. They killed our family, and for that, they deserved death," Sansa defended Arya, angry too. How could Jon not see it? How could he not see how it was right?

"You were only pups then, children. But you grew up, and you went to slay the beasts of all your memories. What happens when the Freys' children grow up? What then? They will come to kill you, calling for justice as you did. They will demand your head for the killing of their fathers and brothers. They will mount rebellions against us, kill our people, all for what you deemed to be justice. Then your children will want their heads, and so on for all of eternity. When will the cycle of bloodshed end?" Jon asked, angry still. How could they not understand the ramifications of killing off a House such as the Freys?

"I'll kill them if they do," Arya responded simply, as if she wasn't talking about killing those who were only babes in their mother's arms right now, children hiding behind their mother's skirts as Robb, Bran, Rickon, and even themselves had done. Jon swallowed, his throat feeling as if it was closing up. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. The faces of the men he executed floated to him now, a boy about Bran's age hanging lifeless by a rope around his neck.

Jon thought he might vomit.

"It is not honorable," Jon tried, desperately.

"Ned Stark had been an honorable man, and he'd lost his head for it. I have no use for honor now," Arya spat.

Jon turned away now, too frightened of the creatures before him. They were not the sisters he'd left behind, but creatures of bloodlust that only understood vengeance.

What would Lady Stark think of her pretty daughters now?

What would Ned Stark think of all his children now?


	5. Chapter 5

"Lady Stark, that was quite the message you sent." Arya Stark had quietly left the Godswood after their half-brother left them, and Sansa had bid Sandor Clegane to follow. She knew the two had some things to settle between themselves. Ser Jaime Lannister stood quietly since they'd left, Sansa merely staring at the weirwood tree as if to find answers there in its old face.

Apparently, Jaime meant to break their silence.

Ghost rubbed his face against the Lady of Winterfell's thigh, as if to offer comfort. She petted his head softly. "Yes, I'm sure it was."

"Did your sister really kill off the Freys?"

"Only the ones who broke Guest Right. We have no use for those we cannot trust." No one in the North or beyond would miss old Walder Frey, even his wives, and only the Frey children would mount a rebellion for the dead Freys. The Freys had lost favor, were deemed cursed by all the gods for the breaking of Guest Right. Most would never dare visit, for fear of sharing the same fate as those that attended the Red Wedding.

No, no one would mourn the Freys or the Boltons as they had Ned and Cat and their poor son Robb, gone too soon and slain over his soup.

"Didn't she break Guest Right in return? Don't you fear the curse of the gods?" Jaime asked, confused. Northerns were a superstitious bunch, so it is no surprise when they hold such traditions in high regard, but this tradition is so respected that even the southern kingdoms, the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, and the Wildlings beyond the Wall respect Guest Right. Why would the Stark girls not fear bringing the wrath of the gods down upon their heads?

"She did not break bread with them. She did not drink their wine or share their salt. She even slept outside. She was not protected under Guest Right, and neither were they."

Jaime often thought on the time he broke Guest Right. He tried to kill that poor, curious boy for climbing too high and seeing Jaime's crimes laid bare. Jaime hadn't been caught, hadn't been formally punished in front of other Lords and Ladies, but the gods punished him well enough. He'd done so many dishonorable things _for Cersei_ , all for nothing now. Cersei wanted him dead, and he wanted to be laid to rest in the cold ground now too.

He wanted to see his sweet children again. Tommen and Myrcella, so sweet and nothing like their mother or father, how he longed to see their smiling faces- even Joffrey. More accurately, he _wanted_ to miss his oldest boy. Joffrey has been a cunt, just as well they all said, as the Queen of Thorns had said. But the Lion of Winterfell could not help but wish things had gone differently for the boy. Would his first son have turned out different, better, under Jaime's watchful eye, instead of the drunken King who couldn't seem to love anything but a ghost and those damn Starks?

"Seems dishonorable. To wear another's face and masquerade as a friend, only to betray those who let their guard down in their own hall."

"Isn't that what your sister did to me?"

To that, Jaime Lannister had no response.

"The men who'd murdered my family, who'd seen to the destruction of my House, had no honor. These men do not deserve honor. I will see to it that they do not escape justice for their actions, whether in an honorable or dishonorable way. Then, and only then, when every last one of them have been slain or put to the sword, will I return to my family's honorable way of life," Sansa said, her tone brooking no argument.

"You'll find, Lady Stark, that it is very hard to appear honorable to those around you once you've thrown the shackles of honor and duty off, even for a moment. It is very hard to place those shackles back upon your wrists when you've tasted the freedom of dishonor," Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, Man Without Honor, told her, all honesty and self-deprecating mirth.

The Young Lion of Casterly Rock, young no longer, Lion of Winterfell now, knows what it means to be judged solely off of one singular moment in time, one choice.

He'd cast a King down, off of his throne of a thousand swords, and was forever known as Kingslayer.

Sansa knew he was right. Once you had committed a dishonorable act, there was no return. Just as the Freys had lost the trust of every House, every man they thought they could call upon. All across the lands, they whispered of the Red Wedding and the greatest betrayal ever to be known since the time of the Rat Cook. No one mourned the Boltons or the Freys, as they were dishonorable, cruel men.

How could she expect to keep the North's trust if she did not uphold their customs and ways?

But as her little sister had said, Ned Stark was honorable, and it got him killed.

Well, Sansa did that. Her and Cersei and the cruel, bastard boy-King made to sit on a throne too early.

However, she could not shake her bloodlust.

Some part of Sansa, some part the Lannisters had claimed they'd killed, the same part that the Boltons had taken pleasure in torturing, the part that felt like Lady within her, growled and snarled, calling for blood.

Lady had never been so wild, yet it had been the nature of her litter-mates.

People like to say this side of Sansa is _dead_ , gone with her Lord Father, her beautiful Lady Mother, her noble brother, even her sweet Lady and little Rickon- dead with Grey Wind, Summer, and Shaggydog. They like to call her a Fish, their Little Bird, a Lion in disguise, a Bolton, or even Baelish's bastard girl, but they do not know her.

They do not know what growls inside of her, calling for the blood of her enemies and demanding justice for the slain Starks.

Maybe it wasn't Lady after all, but Ghost. Nymeria. Grey Wind, Summer, and Shaggydog, all growling and snarling for justice for the dead Starks, for the Direwolves.

"Perhaps, Ser Jaime. But no matter what they think of me, of my honor, they will always know of the honorable White Wolf, the spitting image of the Quiet Wolf, the _Honorable_ Wolf, and they will know I did everything in my power to avenge the dead." Sansa knew she spoke in only half-truths, that the Lords of the North have begun questioning their King, but Lady Stark would do everything in her power to protect the King in the North's crown. Jon was a Stark, and Sansa would protect the last remaining Starks, her family, with her dying breath.

The Dragon may breathe fire, but the Direwolf's fangs were bared.

Sansa left the Godswood then, her shadows following.

The longer Sansa thought on it, the more she could sympathize with the woman they say stole her brother's heart. She remembered a phrase, long buried in the books she read: _the Dragon must have three heads._ She was the last Dragon, all others killed for one's transgressions. King Robert Baratheon assured everyone in the realm he had killed them all except this little girl across the Narrow Sea, but now she was here with an army. This girl who'd become a woman had brought life to three dragon eggs. She'd hatched the three creatures of ancient magic that had been thought long dead.

But one had already died. One of her _children_ had died. She hadn't yet seen these monstrous beasts, had only heard about them, but she knew a woman must have will of steel to consider a massive creature such as her dragons to be her babies, her children. Part of Sansa, the part that felt like _Cersei_ , who had _learned_ from Cersei, felt satisfaction in knowing that one of the scaled, winged creatures was dead. It reveled in knowing that they _could be killed_ , that if it came to war, there was some weakness to exploit.

Despite her rather murderous education, Sansa did not want to be the reason for another Great House to die off- excluding notable Houses that had contributed to her own House's downfall. Even then, she was content for others of their Houses to live if they did not mean to kill her for ensuring justice was brought down upon their heads.

Perhaps that made her arrogant to believe she could give out such punishments, that she could say who deserved to live or die. She preferred to think of it as settling a score. They hadn't rested until all Starks were dead or at their mercy, so she would do the same. She could forgive, but she could never forget. _The North remembers._

At the edge of the woods, Brienne met them to take over. They were still hiding Jaime, for fear of the Dragon Queen's rage. Until they told her, Jaime mustn't be seen. He donned his hood and slunk off, remaining in the shadows and covering his golden hand completely.

If anyone caught a glimpse of that hand, they were all dead men.

All men must die, but not by a dragon's fire.


	6. Chapter 6

Jon Snow wished to go north.

North, to the land of giants and the Free Folk, to where the snow seemed untouched by the Andals and the Rhoynar, or even the First Men. He knew that the First Men, the Free Folk, had disturbed the land, but Jon could not imagine a more pure land.

However, he was tied here, to what remained of his family. They tethered him here, not allowing him to go but not forcing him to stay.

He felt the strings on him; his hands were tied to Arya, his legs tied to Bran, and sweet, sweet Sansa had her strings wrapped around his heart. Ghost felt woven around him, a part of him. He could never part from them for long, all his pieces belonging to those who shared his heritage.

But this place was not home. Home might have been Winterfell once, but Lady Catelyn Stark made him an outcast in Winterfell from the moment he'd arrived as a babe. She wished he'd never existed, that he'd died in the crib, never to set his eyes on her pure Stark children. This place was the home he'd always wanted, the dream that was always out of reach.

Often Jon wondered, if his mother had never died, would he have ever seen these walls? Would he have known his father? Would Catelyn still have hated him?

Jon would never know.

Like his mother, those answers were lost to the grave.

Jon shook himself of his thoughts, trying to focus on the discussions being held right in front of him. Since he'd returned from the woods, from his meeting with his sisters, he could hardly focus.

The Dragon Queen kept glancing his way, trying to form a connection over battle preparations, but Jon kept avoiding her gaze. He could not face her, could not risk her seeing the secrets hidden in his gaze. He was struggling to hide his secrets as it was.

He felt torn in two, forced to hide half of himself. But he could not fail in this, could not reveal the things he hid from all. He would be what his people needed. He knew what everyone needed of him, and he would provide it for as long as he could.

If only he could convince his heart that this was the right course.

Ser Davos could see his King struggling to remain attentive. The White Wolf has been restless as of late, hard to pin down. Not only that, but he was easy to anger as well. In the past week, he'd probably snapped at someone or other over sixty times, rivaling that damned direwolf's temper. Jon was wilder in the north, more gruff. He had less tact, if he ever had any.

Northerners weren't known for their tact.

Ser Davos answered for Jon when he could, covering for him when he couldn't. There were a few times when Davos had to play the part of the deaf, old soldier just so Jon could hear a question repeated. Luckily, no one would question a battle-hardened man like himself, especially not one who'd lived through the Battle of Blackwater.

Davos glanced over to the Hand of the Queen, studying the Halfman. He remembered that this was the man who had thought to blow up Blackwater Bay, how he'd used wildfire to do it. Davos could still see his son, bright and alive, until the green flames claimed him in an explosion that should have killed Davos too. At first, it had been hard not to blame the little Lannister, the Lioness and her Cub, the Old Lion, even the dead Stag King and all the Seven Kingdoms.

His boy had died, and it was all for a war for a stupid throne.

All for a war he'd dragged his son into.

Now, after losing his little Princess Shireen and losing all faith in Stannis, Davos had let go of some of the pain at the loss of his son and had come to blame no one but the war and himself.

Davos still wasn't sure if he liked the man, though.

When the war council was dismissed, Davos followed Jon to his rooms. He could see Jon was agitated, pacing rather than truly walking. _The King in the North is in a mood_ , Davos thought with near amusement. Davos knew to the Dragon Queen that Jon was King no longer, but Davos felt it was null and void considering the ever-present threat on Dragonstone.

"Davos, why are you following me?" Jon growled, not stopping his walk.

"Just waiting for when you'll snap at the next hapless victim," Davos replied amicably.

Jon glared hard at his advisor, narrowing his eyes. "I do not need you haunting my steps, Davos, unless you'd like to be who I snap at next."

"It might be better for you if you snap at me instead of all your poor subjects, anyway," Davos retorted, a reprimanding tone. Jon groaned, sensing defeat, and retreated into his rooms, slamming his door behind him.

A ghost haunted his steps, and he did not have the patience for old men, no matter how right they may be. _You know nothing, Jon Snow_.

Why did she still haunt him so? Ygritte, who he loved and lost, the woman who had captured his heart so long ago. He wished he'd stayed in that cave, wished he'd never returned. But he had a duty, and he could not regret what he'd done now. He only regretted losing her. Or rather, he regretted her falling in love with him.

_I don't ever want to leave this cave, Jon Snow._

_We should have stayed in that cave._

_Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left?_

_We could stay here a thousand years._

How had he come so far, fought so hard, only to be torn between duty and honor all over again? Maester Aemon must be mocking him somewhere, laughing at his misfortune, the crazy old man. Jon let out a chuckle of fondness, wishing the man was here now to counsel him. Jon was torn between two living women and haunted by a dead one. Maester Aemon would probably beat him over the head with a stick if he could, and Jon would let him.

Jon found himself walking, walking out of his rooms and down the halls, all the way to the training yard. He hadn't trained in some time, too busy trying to make peace with Queens who did not see the threat that lay ahead. Now, one Queen saw it, but still thought of this as _his_ war, like somehow it would not touch her if she did not allow it to. Still another saw the threat, but clearly she wanted to watch her enemies tear each other apart.

Never mind that if Jon's men should fall, if Dany's armies did not succeed, they would all join the Undead's march on King's Landing.

Jon watched the men train, all half-starved and beat to hell. They had barely rested in weeks, but they kept moving. Perhaps it was because of devotion, maybe the dragons that trailed behind them. Jon was proud of these soldiers either way. Most men would have turned tail and run at the notion of fighting the dead, but these men were willing to fight. Jon understood that.

He may never understand the inner workings of throne rooms and small councils, but he understood battlefields.

Soon, Jon was swinging training swords with his men, the ache starting in his muscles. The ache felt good, felt like an old friend returned to him. Jon both hated and missed this feeling. He didn't like killing, never had, but it felt good to have the ache in his body.

After a while, Jorah Mormont appeared on the edges of the training yard, prowling as only a lumbering Mormont Bear could. The Old Bear never prowled, always moving with a presence none could miss. He moved with the confidence of a man who'd seen many things and knew how to handle himself. Jorah, the wayward son, did not possess the same confidence. He'd brought his family, his House, to ruin. The Little She-Bear Lyanna possessed Jeor's confidence; she'd saved her House and brought honor back to Bear Island. She'd seen more in her few years of life than most would see in a lifetime.

Jorah's eyes landed on Jon Snow, lighting up like a predator finally spotting his prey. The White Wolf could see the challenge in the Bear's eyes. The Banished Bear had clearly not enjoyed Jon Snow's presence since the two had met. The bastard King knew why Jorah did not like him, why he sought to challenge him in every War Council; he was in love with Dany. It was plain to see, exposed to the light of day.

Jon could understand that.

Maybe it wasn't just the competition for Dany; perhaps it was Jon's relationship with the fallen Lord Commander Jeor Mormont that had Jorah gunning for the Stark bastard. Jorah hadn't seen his father in years, had been banished by Jon's own father, and then Jon would go to join Jorah'd father at Castle Black and even take his place as Lord Commander. Seven hells, the Old Bear even gave Jon their family's ancestral sword, which rightly belonged to House Mormont and had even been Jorah's at one time.

One could argue that Jon had everything that should have been Jorah's.

It seemed Jorah Mormont was always unlucky in love.

"Care to practice, Wolf?" Jorah said, and if Jon didn't know that they only trained with wooden swords, he would've worried it was a threat.

Jon nodded in agreement, not breaking eye contact. Best not to underestimate the Bear who'd learned from the Dothraki and fought in the Free Cities. No descendant of the First Men and the Andals could earn the respect of the Dothraki without proving to be skilled and deadly in battle.

Without wasting any time, Jorah brandished a training sword, checking it's balance in his hands. The men moved away, giving the seasoned warriors room. They all watched with rapt attention, all wondering who would swing first.

The White Wolf prowled, waiting. He would not swing first.

The Banished Bear stepped up to him, taking a fighting stance. They both circled each other, waiting for the time to strike. The two sized each other up, analyzing the other's movements. A silence descended upon the clearing, all waiting with baited breath.

Finally, Jorah the Andal struck, but the Bastard of Winterfell parried. It was a dance, full of clashing swords and heaving breaths.

The duel dragged on, each matching the other thrust for thrust and parry for parry. It did not end until Jon discovered a chink in Jorah's armor; the Bear was too impatient. Soon, Jon drew him out and disarmed him. The crowd cheered at the show of skill from both men, some going to give their support to Jorah while others patted Jon on the back for this win.

Neither the Wolf nor the Bear took their eyes off the other until the men around them blocked their field of vision.


End file.
